The Book of Dreams(77)

Where the ground levelled out, I found myself walking between dimly seen rows of army tents. They stood empty, their door flaps fastened open and I could see the baggage of the occupants whom I supposed were now out and about on their duties. Occasionally the ghostly figure of a man appeared on foot leading a saddleless horse on halter, only to disappear into the mist without a word of greeting. When the smell of manure grew overpowering I knew I had reached the horse lines. The picket ropes to which the animals were tethered hung slack, but somewhere in the mist, a handful of horses was still being groomed. I heard the impatient stamping of hooves, the occasional vibrating fart of a horse breaking wind and the soothing sounds made by unseen ostlers, whistling between their teeth or murmuring soft nonsense as they attended to their animals. Finally I came to the river bank where the ground was churned to deep mud by the animals brought there to drink.

Here I turned to my left, intending to walk upriver. Before I had gone a couple of hundred paces a breeze sprang up and began to clear away the fog in slow-moving tendrils. I discovered that I had ventured on to a broad open expanse of turf and mud – the cavalry training ground. Men on foot were gathered in groups of about twenty, holding their horses’ reins while they listened to instructors. Compared to the escort of smart troopers that had greeted Wali Husayn when we had reached Zaragoza, the men were very scruffy. They wore an assortment of helmets and mailcoats, no two of them alike, and their mounts were shaggy in their winter coats.

The nearest instructor, a lean, grizzled fellow with a horseman’s bow legs, had his sword slung across his back. The handle protruding over his shoulder reminded me of the last time I had seen Gerin as he rode away with Ganelon in the company of the Wali of Barcelona. The instructor was standing with the reins of his horse looped over his arm and holding up a small iron hoop, about the size of his palm. One side of it was flattened.

‘Any of you know what this is?’ he was demanding of his listeners.

One or two members of his audience looked down at the ground and shifted awkwardly. No one made any reply. I guessed that many of them knew the answer but did not want to risk being singled out later.

‘It’s a stirrup,’ announced the instructor. ‘Now some of you think that stirrups are womanly, that a good rider doesn’t need them.’ He jabbed a stubby finger at a tall, rangy recruit in the front row who had removed his helmet to reveal a shock of red hair. ‘Carrot Top, you’re a big lad. Mount up and let me show why every one of you will have stirrups attached to his saddle by tomorrow morning.’

The red-headed recruit put on his helmet and vaulted on to his horse. He was an accomplished rider and sat easily in his saddle though I noticed that his legs hung down each side of the animal, without the benefit of stirrups.

By now the instructor was also on horseback. He drew his sword and nudged his mount forward until the two riders were facing one another, knee to knee.

‘Strike at me, lad!’ he commanded.

The redhead pulled out his own blade and aimed a halfhearted blow that the instructor easily blocked with his shield. Then the instructor rose in his stirrups until he was half a head taller than his opponent. Reversing his sword, he thumped the pommel down hard on his opponent’s helmet. Dazed, the redhead reeled in the saddle.

A hand clapped me on the shoulder, making me jump. Hroudland had walked up behind me.

‘Skulking on the sidelines, Patch, instead of training?’ he queried cheerfully.

‘Where are those men from?’ I asked.

‘They’re locals. I’ve stripped the March of men and animals. The king’s marshals want cavalry, not foot soldiers, for the expedition to Hispania.’ He turned to look at the recruits who were now lining up under their instructor’s eye, ready to tilt at a line of straw dummies. ‘Let’s hope this latest batch of levies are quick learners. We don’t have enough fodder to keep so many animals for more than a few weeks.’

‘If you want me to join them, I’ll need to borrow some armour from you, as well as a sword,’ I said.

‘What happened to the sword I selected for you from the royal armoury in Aachen?’ he demanded, his face suddenly serious.

‘I left it in Zaragoza with my servant Osric. He’s a free man now. I also gave him my horse.’

For a moment the count was lost for words. Then he snapped angrily, ‘You blockhead. That sword was something special. Have you forgotten that it is forbidden to export such weapons from Frankia?’

His outburst was so unexpected that it took me a moment to respond.

‘I’ll ask Osric for it back when we get to Zaragoza,’ I said.